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Monkey in the Middle
Another day, another round of Hot Rod getting his aft handed to him. He's settled just outside the entrance to the Halls of Order. He studies the insignia painted over the floor as he sips a cube of weak energon to refuel. The brilliant crimson of his paint has been dulled by the dust he's been forced to eat, but that's what happens when he learns from Chromia. It's just part of the process. "So it would probably be deeply sacrilegious or something if I hired someone to paint over that, right?" he asks Chromia offhand as he studies the Autobot sigil. "Because I was thinking -- flames." Of course he was. "Why not actual flames?" Chromia says with a poker-faced blandness as she slants a look down and across at him, her arms folded loosely across the solid trunk of her frame, her gaze just slightly narrowed in what could be humor, irritation, or both. "Just light it on fire." Because she is a supportive instructor, the next thing she says as she tilts her winged-helm head is, "I'm sure it would help you spar if I had to pound you through a circle of burning rubble." Watching the two carry on in friendly banter is Deadlock. He's crouching in a dark alleyway across from the Halls of Order, behind some dilapidated crates. He smirks a little, as soon as they start conversing about Chromia's Autobot badge. His hand goes to his weapon holstered neatly at his hip. "Oh, man." Hot Rod's expression lights with an inappropriate degree of delight as he considers it. "That would be /awesome/. You think we could set it up? Hah, who am I kidding -- of course we can, Nautica can figure it out." He frames a span of floor in the stretch of his hands and tilts his head. He pivots, looking for other Autobot insignia he could deface. Flames everywhere. It'd be great. GR9!! Chromia looks at his face with a mildly appalled expression seeping through that initial layer of blandness. It is her 'what have I done' look. It is a look that Hot Rod has seen before. "Nautica is not going to ignite the floor," she intones with great seriousness, although for all her statement of this, she's not actually so sure. It might be a great way to test out temporary self-extinguishing flammables or something. Who knows? Not Chromia. Maybe they'll notice, maybe they won't, but Deadlock is no longer in the alleyway across from the Halls of Order. So where is he now? Why, he's a mere few feet from Chromia, lurking behind a large statue. He draws his weapon and inches closer still. He gives a low laugh, then suddenly springs from his hiding place. "Surprise," he says in a guttural voice, leaning forward in an attempt to put Chromia in a headlock, while simultaneously drawing his weapon. "I bet she will." Hot Rod meets that exasperation with a grin, facing the implied challenge she no doubt didn't mean to state head-on. He looks back over with a thoughtful expression, and misses the moment that Deadlock moves closer. His spring forward, however, is impossible to miss. He pivots, drawing his arms up and back to level the guns on their side at the figure behind Chromia. He falters, however, when he makes out who it is. "/Drift/?" Good thing Chromia's a big girl, because he just hangs there like a loser. Chromia loves headlocks, but not typically those headlocks that she does not personally initiate. With a wordless shout that bespeaks a strange kind of compressed outrage, she makes a poor combat banterer. She reacts not that much like someone taken off-guard, even though as it happens she was totally taken off guard; she shoves backward into his grapple, attempting to slam backward with elbow to chassis and force his weight into a roll. Weapons? What? Hot Rod is a terrible friend, clearly. Deadlock stumbles backwards, dropping his weapon. Her blow leaves a sizable dent in his armor, but his optics narrow and he rushes forwards with renewed vigor. No weapons, eh? Well, if that's the way she wants to play it. He transforms and attempts to run her over. It's true. He's the worst. "What are you doing?" Hot Rod demands, moving forward to grab Chromia by the arm and pull her out of the way. (She is perfectly capable of moving herself. It is /quite possible/ that he is just trying to keep her from manifesting an axe and chopping Drift-totally-Drift in half.) He puts himself between them. When he transforms to drive at her, Chromia stands braced with her head slightly lowered, not entirely unlike a bull preparing to charge. She waits for the last possible moment to dance out of the way and strike, which means that what actually happens is Hot Rod gets in the way. Her pivot-dodge becomes the scrape of metal of a sideswipe that does not, quite, lose her her feet. It's not cool on the paint job, though, man. Not cool at all. "Get back!" she says. "What are /you/ doing?" So it is that Hot Rod totally manages to at least delay the appearance of the battle-axe. Deadlock doesn't appreciate Hot Rod getting in the way. He's a mission here, hello! To kidnap an Autobot and gain rank among the Decepticons. He protoforms, and picks up his blaster he'd dropped a moment ago. He glares fervently at Hot Rod and reaches for his arm, in an attempt to yank him out of the way. "Out of my way, dumbaft!" "What's it look like I'm doing?" Hot Rod tosses over his shoulder at Chromia. He's HELPING. "Definitely not moving, don't be stupid," he answers them both. Rather than allow it's-totally-Drift-right to yank him away, Hot Rod turns his wrist to grab right back. Even more annoyingly, Hot Rod reaches for the other hand, too, before anyone can get off a shot. "Chromia's one of the /good guys/. That's why she's here! Why are you even attacking her?" Now Chromia slings up the long staff from her back, fingers curling close along its long, dark haft. "Yes," she invites, "get out of his way." She smiles the kind of smile that most pleasant people don't smile, the battle light bright in her angled face as she levels the weapon at Deadlock. The body that Chromia guards is not typically her own; rather, its use is primarily to be placed between danger and her protectee. She has castigated Hot Rod for being reckless. It's total hypocrisy. "I don't know what you think you're playing at but it ends /now/," she says. "Hot Rod, don't think I won't go right through you." Except that she continues not to charge; she blusters threat, but makes no move to go right through him. Deadlock is puzzled and also very annoyed. Why is this guy attempting to hold his hand?! And not just one, but BOTH? Ugh, what a total creep. He starts to wonder if somehow this mech is a freak fan of his, for some reason only recently having crawled out of the woodwork. He glares at the flameoboy. "I said, out of my way. I'm going to tear this Autobot filth a new one," he snarls. So the only thing Hot Rod's hand holding will earn him is an attempted knee in the crotch. The gleam of Chromia's smile makes Hot Rod's quick, "No, you won't," just a little uncertain. She's got a look that might bring doubt into even the most trusting of hearts, but he holds on to his faith in her. The strike of Deadlock's knee -- not as hard as it could be, true, but hard enough to /firmly/ turn Hot Rod's head -- recalls his attention. "You're making a /mistake/." He grapples for the gun, turning hard into Deadlock-wait-no-Drift with the shove of his shoulder to push him back. Chromia huffs a breath a little like a frustrated growl grinding in the depths of her throat: "Hrr." She narrows her gaze, and then drives forward at them both. She does not go through Hot Rod so much as attempt to go around him. The spin of her long staff above her head comes down for a hard crack at Deadlock's head. Deadlock tries to jerk away from Hot Rod, twisting the barrel of his gun away from him. "Stop getting in my way, you slagger!" He's momentarily dazed as Chromia's rod smacks him on the helm with a resounding crack. He scowls, and fires off several rounds in Chromia's direction, in the general surrounding area near her helm and torso. "Chromia-- /Drift/! Come on!" Hot Rod looks totally dismayed by her getting a crack him, him getting a shot at her, and meanwhile Hot Rod's just standing in between trying his hardest to get in the way. Grappling not working out in his favor, he moves to stand in front of Chromia instead. He herds her toward the entrance. "Go inside, take the tunnels. I'll slow him down." Yes? Yes. Good. This will work. Rounds of shot cracking hard against her chassis, splitting paint and goring hard into the metal across shoulder pauldron and collar. Her feet plant wide and hard against the floor and she stares into Hot Rod's face. "If you think I'm going to let you fight my battle for me, you're out of your mind." Gripping her bo, she pushes forward, cracking her shoulder into him full bore to push him back. It's dumb; she just got injured in that shoulder, damn it. Well at least he and the Autobot can both agree that Hot Rod needs to get out of the way. He jumps aside deftly as Chromia barrels forward into Hot Rod. He smirks, laughing a little, and takes out a second blaster. This isn't going to end pretty for anyone. He starts shooting. At all moving objects. Er, people. Though most of his shots are aimed at Chromia. "I'm not--" Hot Rod gets no further in his protest before Chromia knocks him on his aft, reprising the opening. He scrambles back to his feet to lunge for them both, but he's a beat behind. Freed of Hot Rod's impediment at least momentarily, Chromia charges forward in a shimmering rain of glass, scattering across the stones of the floor to crunch underfoot. She runs at Deadlock, swinging the long stick to try to bash his weapon from his grasp. Well, one of them. Deadlock looks relieved. And happy. "Finally!" he shouts, head rushing Chromia as well. The fem takes a swipe at him, managing to loosen the grip he has on one of his blasters. But he quickly regains hold of it and aims point blank for her torso and weapon hand, hoping to disarm her. "If you'd come quietly, this would be so much easier for you," he laughs. Hot Rod does not look happy. Hot Rod looks /so unhappy/. "Stop it, both of you! Back off!" He crashes right into and between them. Interrupting Rod says--. About to grandstand right back in Deadlock's face, no doubt, Chromia is forced back by the sudden crash of Hot Rod between them. She takes a step back and slams her bo hard against the floor with a resounding crack. "Hot Rod," she roars at him. Like a lion. Okay no, probably not like a lion. So his shots are now just grazing Hot Rod who has oh so CONVENIENTLY placed himself between them. He scowls, looking displeased. But a thought suddenly occurs to him. "Heh.." he laughs darkly and puts one of his guns away, then jets forwards in an attempt to place Hot Rod into a headlock with a gun to his helm. "/Chromia/." Hot Rod is the last thing from cowed by her roar; he snaps right back, but his tone verges desperate, even pleading. Planting one hand on either chest, he pushes them away. "Get out of here, and this /ends/. Just go! I'm not trying to fight anything!" ...clearly, since Deadlock gets Hot Rod a headlock. It's a loose lock which he responds to by trying to slide out of his grasp. "I'm not leaving you here," Chromia says with, apparently, serious emphasis. It's hard to tell what spurs her vehemence: loyalty? Aggrieved pride? Sheer contrarian exasperation? She spins her bo to take another crack at Deadlock's near weapon hand as Hot Rod proves inordinately wiggly for the other mech's dire fiendish (?) purposes. Deadlock's blaster is knocked to the ground, but fast as lightning he pulls out the one he'd holstered easier. "Dammit!" he curses when Hot Rod wiggles out of his grasp. Since it would appear it's harder to get Chromia to cooperate, he lunges at Hot Rod again. this time attempting to knock the mech to the ground. No one is cooperating. Not Chromia, not Deadlock, not Hot Rod. He reaches to stop the next crack of her bo, pulling the weapon to disarm her. Because clearly that's a great idea! "And he's not /stopping/ as long as /you're here/." He's remarkably steady when Deadlock tries to knock him down, but he's also not attacking him, so--. That's cool. When Hot Rod takes her stick, Chromia shouts at him, "You idiot!" which is totally breaking their deal about calling him names in front of new people. Weaponless, but not entirely disarmed, she charges into the fray again, apparently this time to knock Deadlock off Hot Rod with the ram of her -- at least it's her uninjured shoulder this time in this comedy of errors. "What the hell?!" Deadlock is extremely confused by the fact that somehow Hot Rod ISN'T going down. Dude, the guy is like, a two ton block of zolanium. Hence, when Chromia headrushes him, he's a little surprised. She knocks him off of Hot Rod, but now he's going to grapple with her instead--he reaches forwards with both arms, in attempt to trap her in a.. not so friendly embrace. All things considered, Chromia can probably be forgiven for calling Hot Rod an idiot given that what he does next is use /her/ weapon and /her/ moves to go after her. Yep. That's right. He strikes at Chromia, with a sweep at her knees that reverse into a sharp jab at Deadlock aimed to hit him dead-on on the chest. "I'm not going to let /either/ of you /hurt each other/." Caught in the close quarters grapple, Chromia struggles not so much to escape as to control it, growling wordlessly in the clanking tangle of metal limbs. Her experience with wrassling is not inconsiderable, if most of her practice lately has been versus raw recruits. Really raw recruits. Who would rather be blowing up stuff. As the spoke of her bo kind of pointlessly wings off them -- she's really got to train him better -- Chromia shifts in the twist of Deadlock's grasp, reangles her head, and attempts to use it to smash his face. That's what her head is for, right? Battering ram? Chromia's attempt to slam Deadlock with her helm doesn't quite work out, he angles his helm up and to the left, so her face just smashes into his neck. He starts to tighten his grip on her, moving his arms down and around her torso while rolling over. Yeah, that doesn't look appropriate. But really, all he wants to do is kidnap her. Except Hot Rod's making that REALLY hard. All this NUZZLING and CUDDLING is just ticking Hot Rod off. He glances around, looking for some other way to get them apart, and spots Deadlock's (wait, no, Drift's) abandoned blaster. He scoops it up and fires a shot at the ground near their feet to get their attention. This is so distressing. No one is paying attention to him. Close quarters grappling always has this real capacity to look completely inappropriate; particularly when opponents are fairly closely matched in strength, as appears to be the case here. Luckily, nobody is filming, right. As the shot ricochets past her feet, she grunts, trying to force her assailant back off her with a twist that lets her smash her elbow hard into him so she can try to break the hold. Chromia's elbow digs into Deadlock's side and breaks his hold on her, but he isn't ready to give up just yet, oh no. Instead, he attempts twist his leg around hers so as to keep her from breaking away. He glares at Hot Rod. "Primus, would you quit being a crybaby? Mind your own damn business, you flame colored freak!" "You're tempting me! You /really/ are!" Hot Rod snaps right back at Deadlock. "Chromia, back off. It's the last time I'm telling you." He keeps his borrowed gun leveled on them both and her stick tucked in his other hand. "You reach for her again and my next shot is at you." It would be really convenient to Chromia's needs if she had her stick right now. It would be an excellent way to lever herself apart from her erstwhile dance partner's continuing attempts to trap her leg. Instead, she hauls back, fingers closing in a fist, which she readies for a strike she doesn't throw, and snaps, "Try counting to ten. Your amica endurae here isn't getting the damned message." Deadlock is highly annoyed by Chromia's comment. His /amica endurae/? PRIMUS. "He is NOT MY AMICA ENDURA DAMMIT!!" He looks embarrassed, glancing over at Hot Rod and cringing. That paintjob. Just... why. He growls in irritation, hesitating. Then he pulls out his blaster and opens fire on Hot Rod. Oh. Good. Everyone is listening to Hot Rod. Chromia's not punching Dri--eadl--whoever; Deadlock's not going after Chromia. At last. Finally. Everything is going his way. Utter disbelief meets the turn of Deadlock's blaster toward him. Hot Rod scarcely seems to notice as the shots strike home -- not at first. That amazing paintjob scorches, blisters, and peels as the armoring cracks. Then he steps back, startled into sudden movement. Disbelief slides through incomprehension to confusion touched with betrayal. He continues to hold Deadlock's other blaster in his hand, but he doesn't actually do much with it. He throws Chromia's bo toward her and says, "/Come on/." Maybe if they both leave. When Deadlock starts firing on his would-be protector, Chromia drives her fist at his head with a wordless snarl. Everyone in this fight learns from experience and changes their behavior. She moves almost as if on spinal reflex. She's so busy acting out of immediate instinct that she misses the stick being thrown at her and it thwacks into her and falls to the floor with a clatter. For some reason, as soon as the shots collide with Hot Rod's body, Deadlock freezes momentarily. This is all starting to seem very familiar, though he can't figure out why. Which is why Chromia's fist will connect solidly with his face. He collapses to his knees, dazed. He sees Chromia's weapon on the ground and reaches for it.... "Oh, come on." Hot Rod groans in dismay. Chromia's dropping sticks, punching Drift; Drift's going for sticks, not called Drift. And here's Hot Rod with a gun that he doesn't want to use. He stashes the gun and then steps toward them, one hand pressed to his side where the shots scored their mark. Chromia kicks the bo with the flat angle of her toe, snapping it both out of reach and upright into her hand. It's a handy trick. She spins it over her head and drives it down hard across the top of Deadlock's helm. THWACK. Deadlock's optics widen a little as the bo is kicked away from him and drawn up into Chromia's hand. "..." Then he's being thwacked on the helm with the sturdy weapon, and he nearly collapses and stasis locks. His visuals cut out for a klik, but when they kick back on, he notices Hot Rod standing there looking pretty injured. "...." "Hot Rod?" His expression crumples with concern. Then he remembers Chromia is here, and he turns to her vehemently. "You!" he growls. "This is /your/ fault!" Yeah, somehow, it's her fault, even though Hot Rod was the difficult one, to put it LIGHTLY. He throws a punch at her before rushing to Hot Rod's side. Chromia doesn't have time to frame a reaction before the smash of Deadlock's impact sends her reeling back; she cracks one knee into the ground, catching herself otherwise on the brace of the bo. "You're the one who shot him," she spits in high incredulity. But the sea change is evident, for all that she does not entirely trust it; she kneels there narrow-eyed and tense, as if about to surge to her feet and attack at the first wrong word spoken. Nope, Deadlock didn't hear her. Or, he just totally ignored her. Rude, but hey, his best friend is standing right there, of course all other comments are going to the wind. He grabs Hot Rod's hand (wasn't he just protesting that a moment ago??). "Come on," he says, "we have to talk. Without the /Autobot/ present," he says, dragging Hot Rod off. It could be a trick. It would be an /amazing/ trick. Hot Rod provides zero resistance, all too willing to fall victim to hope. His smile is brilliant, despite the ruin of his injury. Right there. Still smoking. Yep, everything's fine, now. "Yeah. Okay." He sends Chromia a silent request: << Let me just talk to him. If that really shook his memory loose -- look, I need this. >> Chromia's response is twofold: she stands, slowly, and steps back, like she is just going to let them leave, her face a tense mask of halfway to murdertown. Her return message to Hot Rod is: << If this goes south and you don't send me an alert IMMEDIATELY I will personally resurrect you just to kill you. >>